Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isobelle sat abruptly in her bed.
Had someone knocked upon her door, or had it been a dream? Was it only an echo in her sleepy mind of the knocking two nights before?
That night, before she and her cousin had time for a proper fare thee well, a lad had come to the door to collect Ossian, to help carry his weapons and such to the ship.
She could not follow along to wave from the dock—it would hardly be safe for her to head for home alone, in the darkness.
But perhaps a quick farewell was for the best. At least she’d been able to shed her tears without getting her cousin wet.
The pounding came again. Not by a small hand.
“Signorina Ross,” came the old woman’s wavering voice. “Signorina!” The rest was Italian. She couldn’t possibly expect Isobelle to understand her. But why would she come so early in the morning to spout nonsense?
Grudgingly, Isobelle got to her feet, wrapped her Ross plaid around her night clothes, and went to the door. Through the wood, she heard a man speak low. Signora Crescento answered.
Isobelle whipped the door open and stood in the entrance with her hands on her hips. “Signora Crescento, this is no hour to start yer wee parade...” Isobelle’s rant was cut short by a sudden loss of wind in her sails.
A striking man, far and away more handsome than the likes of the previous four days’ processions, stood head, shoulders, and chest above the old woman.
His hair was dark, but a warm color, not the black of many Italians.
The length of it disappeared against the sober darkness of his tunic.
His shoulders were broad enough to block her small doorway if he took another step forward.
A long scar across his features suggested he was no stranger to battle.
The white brand ran from his left brow, across his nose and cheek, then hooked around the edge of his right jaw in an angry pucker.
A fine scar indeed. But the face beneath it was even finer.
The chin was square, not unlike that of her brother Monty.
The planes of his cheeks were flat and on the hollow side, topped with high, wide cheekbones.
His brows formed a dark ridge. His black-brown eyes peered into her soul.
They dropped briefly to note her state of dress, including the Ross plaid, then returned her gaze once more.
Whether he liked what he saw was a mystery. Not even his lips moved.
Four guards in black and yellow uniforms stood at his back with pikes. Four bees holding their stingers at the ready, she thought. An important man, then.
Isobelle did not yet know how to say, “Too important,” in Italian, but the word she did know was more accurate in any case.
“Troppo perfetto,” she said, stepped back, and shut the door before the man’s gaze persuaded her to reconsider.
Her heart raced with an odd sort of panic, as if the man on the other side of the door might just be handsome enough to weaken her resolve.
But she mustn’t give in to temptation. She had to hold strong and hope that one day the suitors would give up hope.
She would not marry, no matter what a man’s station, no matter how pretty.
She realized it might be wiser not to learn their language after all. If she couldn’t understand them, they could not impress her, seduce her, or change her mind.
Neither would she teach any of them English, let alone Gaelic. The sound of her own language from the mouth of that handsome man at her door might mean her doom.
The wood shook behind her as the pounding resumed.
She sighed, supposing it might not be so painful to look upon the man one last time, but only once.
After all, she’d hardly been gracious. And since he was likely unaware of the men Signora Crescento had previously brought to her door, he would think her quite rude indeed.
A pity he didn’t speak English, or she would explain.
But then again, he was no commoner. Perhaps he did speak English.
She whisked the door open once again and offered the little company a smile, despite their frowns.
The old woman appeared downright frightened, crushing the skirt of her apron to her heart, her eyes wide and wild.
Was she frightened for herself, or for Isobelle?
Was it the man’s temper she feared? If he were a tyrant, he would find no welcome from her.
“Signore,” she began. “Do you perhaps speak English?”
The man nodded once, then gestured for her to come forward.
Isobelle left her feet where they were, tipped her head to one side and raised a brow.
Signora Crescento began spouting in Italian again, until a sharp look from the gentleman stopped her mid-sentence. She nodded, bowed, and took a step back.
So. He was a tyrant. Turranos, in Latin. The man had to know his Latin.
“Signore Turranos,” she said, “I am not in want of a husband just the now. I appreciate that ye’ve risen so early to see me this morn, but I assure ye—”
“Silence,” he said, and though he’d not raised it, his deep voice cut through the pale dawn.
His audacity so surprised her, she complied without intending to. But to compensate for lack of speech, she stepped back and took hold of the door once again, prepared to shut it on the man’s nose if need be. But he put a foot forward, over her threshold, to prevent just that.
“Go away,” she demanded.
“Signorina Ross,” he barked loudly, even though they were only an arm’s length apart.
He then said something in Italian, no doubt for the sake of anyone who was awake at that hour and of a mind to listen.
He took a breath, then lowered his chin and his voice.
“Isobella Ross, you are under arrest. In the name and holy office of his Beatitude, The Patriarch of Venice, you are accused of witchcraft and are to be removed for examination and interrogation. I advise you to come willingly, for your actions here and now will be taken into consideration.”
Witchcraft!
Panic flooded her chest and made breathing impossible, but after glancing at a pale and hysterical Signora Crescento, Isobelle resolved not to show her fear.
Her actions were being considered? Then she refused to act guilty in front of the tyrant who had apparently not come to consider her for marriage.
Witchcraft was an ugly word that had nearly gotten her killed before. She had no idea how they dealt with witches in Italy, but such a religious state would surely treat her no better than her own kirk had.
She forced a smile and laughed. “Witchcraft? Yer jesting, of course. ‘Tis hardly me own fault, this red hair. It vexes me something awful, so I assure ye, I pay dearly for bearing it. But a reasonable man like yerself would not think to punish a woman for the color of hair God Himself granted her.”
The man glanced briefly at her hair, then back at her face. In his eyes she saw some soft thought, then regret, but that was quickly replaced by something harder.
“This has naught to do with your hair,” he said. A soldier behind him frowned and Isobelle supposed it was likely no one else spoke English but her and the handsome one.
“Please, sir.” She kept her voice steady so no one might suspect she was begging.
“What can I say to help ye believe me? I am not a witch. I’ve known real witches in Scotland and I assure ye, I am not one of them.
I have no knowledge of medicines, herbs, or the like.
And I’ve been here for six days, no more.
Who could possibly know me well enough to accuse me of such a thing? ”
She suddenly remembered the abbess, who could not have been pleased with her.
Then there was a ship full of oarsmen and passengers who’d avoided her.
But she’d supposed that was only because Ossian had hovered over her like an angry wolf.
Sophia could not have been displeased with her, after what Isobelle had done to ensure the young woman’s freedom, to run away with the young man she loved.
And the only mention of witches, since she’d left Scotland, had been between herself and Ossian, and then only in private—
Or that once, in the abbey, when none had spoken English...
She took another step back, deeper into her house. The guards started, but made no move to come after her. She looked into the tall one’s dark eyes and imagined a rood screen before him.
“It was you,” she whispered. “In the abbey. Behind the screen.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm, but recovered quickly. “Will you come willingly, Venafica?” His voice poured over her like warm, trickling water. The word venefica might have been an endearment if it had not been for the rest of their conversation.
“Venefica?” she queried.
The old woman crossed herself and whimpered. That alone told her what she needed to know. But he answered her in any case.
“Witch.”